Peaches
by Padfoot Reincarnated
Summary: The only food Harry has in his cupboard are cans of peaches and Draco is having nightmares filled with green light. HD slash, complete.


**I do not own Harry Potter. Imagine that.**

Harry is the one to find Draco. He lingers long after everyone else has gone and paces back and forth between the forest and the creek, kicking up little mushroom clouds of dust. His foot connects with something solid.

It's a hand, attached to a wrist, attached to an arm, attached to a torso, attached to Draco Malfoy.

Harry looks over his shoulder at the Aurors scanning the site and the neat row of bodies.

He needs an enemy. He needs someone who's always been there. He needs someone who _knows._

He checks to make sure no one's watching, and takes him home.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco wakes up in the middle of the night. A thin sliver of moonlight finds its way into the room through the crack in the heavy velvet curtains.

He's buried in mountains of pillows; at least two under his head and he can feel more on either side of his face. His body is lost beneath thick blankets. He flings everything to the floor and sits up in wild panic.

He has no idea where he is, or if it's somewhere safe. So he listens for anything. But all he can hear is his own breathing, and he's a little surprised to discover he's still alive.

Because he can and because he hasn't in a long time, he decides to be loud. He rocks the bed back and forth so it thumps against the wall, shaking free cobwebs and bits of loose plaster that were clinging to the ceiling.

"Hello!" he shouts at the top of his lungs, enjoying the way the thick walls absorb his voice. "Hello!" He doesn't expect an answer but he hasn't heard himself like this in so long. He laughs a little, and then he's frightened, and he's quiet.

There's footsteps outside his room. Draco's heart pounds and he gathers all the blankets and pillows back onto the bed and hides beneath them.

The door opens with a creak.

"Hello?"

Draco doesn't answer, but he pokes his head up a bit. Whoever it is must have heard him, so if they want to kill him they will. But maybe it's someone good.

It's Potter.

Draco sneers and turns away. "Potter," he says, as viciously as he can. He's too tired for anything else.

"Malfoy," Potter acknowledges, but without a hint of the venom Draco's become accustomed to over the years.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Where am I?" he asks briskly. He hates having to ask Potter anything, but sometimes it's necessary.

"Grimmauld Place," Potter says evenly, stepping into the room. His wand is lit and Draco can see his face.

Draco nods. "Why?"

Potter shrugs. "I don't know, really," he admits. "You can leave if you want."

That sounds like a good idea to Draco. But he has twelve Galleons and his wand and that's _all, _and he can't go home because his father left the manor to his cousin Corvus and he isn't interested in any of the other ways he might find money.

"I'm staying," he says. "Are you—staying here?"

Potter smiles a little, though he doesn't look very happy. "This is my house," he says.

"Oh." Draco is quiet for a minute. "You aren't going to bother me, are you?"

"Of course not," Harry agrees, and then, without conviction, "Ferret."

"Freak."

Harry leaves.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

When Draco wakes up again the next morning there's a steaming pot of coffee and an empty mug on his bedside table, along with a plate of biscuits and a few paper packets of sugar. He isn't hungry yet, though, so he lies motionless, his body slowly heating from sunlight pouring in through the windows.

Even after he is hungry, he doesn't move immediately. He listens to his stomach rumble. His head aches with emptiness.

Eventually he grow bored with this, and he sits up in bed and pours himself a cup of coffee and empties all the sugar packets into it. He brings it to his mouth and sips, but it's grown cold and it's still bitter. He takes a mouthful of biscuit and finds it dry and stale.

He considers leaving the room in search of food, but he thinks of his father lying face down on the ground and decides he isn't so hungry, anyway. And Potter doesn't bring any more food up. He spends the day in bed, staring at the ceiling and drifting in and out of green dreams.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

By Draco's second evening in Grimmauld Place, he needs food, father be-damned. And Potter hasn't been back up since that first night, so Draco will have to come out.

His shoes have been removed, he discovers. He decides to leave them off in the hopes that he can avoid Potter entirely—those encounters were never pleasant.

His room opens to a hallway filled with creepy house-elf heads mounted on plaques, names under them—Telly, Finny, Dicky (He wonders briefly who gave them such hideous names. Poor Dicky.) There are three directions he can go, and he chooses to go straight ahead.

When he comes to a staircase, he peers over the railing, checking for any signs of Potter...and there he is, crouching next to a couch. He isn't moving at all, and Draco wonders if he is asleep or maybe dead. He considers checking but decides that overall it isn't worth it. He ignores him and opens three doors before finding a kitchen.

The cupboard is mostly bare, but he reaches into the very back and finds a can of peaches. He's never really liked peaches, but he opens it as fast as he can and begins to eat them without a fork. He shovels them into his mouth and ignores the stream of juice running down his wrist and licks the trickles forming at the edges of his mouth. His lips are soft and sticky. When the peaches are gone he drinks the juice.

When he leaves to head back to his room, he can't help but glance over at Potter. He's in the same place, but he isn't asleep. He's looking at some book (a photo album, Draco thinks), and when he glances up at Draco a tear rolls off the tip of his nose and splashes on the plastic covered pages.

Draco opens his mouth and feels like he should say something. Potter isn't supposed to be human—Potter isn't supposed to cry. Potter is supposed to be Superman, the next Dumbledore, Potter killed Voldemort, Potter is an orphan. He has never seen Potter cry. He feels like he is interrupting something, though he has no idea what.

Potter leaps to his feet when he sees Draco staring and roughly wipes the back of his palm against his eyes. "Did you eat my peaches?" he asks, his voice creaky as though he's forgotten how to talk.

"Yeah, I did," Draco says, glad to be back in familiar territory. "You don't have any other food."

Potter shrugs. "I like peaches," he says. And then he turns back to his photo album.

Draco is confused. He wants a fight. He wants to argue. He wants things to be like they always were with Potter. "You should get some more food," he says, "Now you don't have anything left."

Harry doesn't give the slightest indication that he even hears Draco.

Draco stares at the top of his head for a minute, anger mounting quickly. "You aren't taking very good care of me," he whines, "I thought I was your guest."

Harry looks up. His eyes are green and all Draco can think of is green light rushing towards his father and wondering where it came from. His eyes are green and Draco wonders why people think they're so wonderful anyway. Because to Draco all they look like is death.

"To be frank, Malfoy," Potter says, "Your comfort is not my top priority. I'm letting you stay here because I know you don't have anywhere to go—and anyway, I don't think you're all bad."

Draco doesn't know what to say to this. So he leaves.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Days are long in Grimmauld Place, and Draco isn't known for his patience. One morning, he is struck with a sudden desire to clean his room. It isn't that it's _messy,_ exactly, but Draco loves to know where everything is.

He starts under the bed. He finds little of interest, and most of it is promptly disposed of. But he finds a picture of Potter and his sidekicks, and that he keeps; just because he's curious what it's doing under the bed. He also finds a Gryffindor scarf, which he throws back under the bed, a half eaten box of chocolates, which he keeps, and a thick cloak.

He moves onto the closet, but this particular venture doesn't last long. After about five minutes of exploration, he finds a heavy box. There isn't room to open it inside, so he sweeps off the mound of papers on top of it and drags it out into the open. He pries the off the tape that's sealing it shut and peers inside.

It's books. And entire box full of them; a little dusty, but perfectly readable. He pulls them out one by one, glancing at the authors—Steinbeck, Austen, Bronte, Hugo, Shakespeare—he's only heard of the last one, and so he picks one of those to read. It's thin, hardbound. A little curious, he flips to the inside cover before he begins, wondering if he'll find a name. And there's a signature; tidy black ink—Hermione J. Granger.

But wasn't she...

He snaps the book shut and pulls out another, and another. They all bear her signature. He checks the photograph; on the back, in the same handwriting, _Harry, Ron and I; Hogsmeade, October '96. _And tied to the chocolates, a note—_Happy Birthday, Hermione! Your friend, Harry. _

He tries to get his mind around the fact that he's spent the last three weeks living in the room of a dead girl.

He tries to picture her here, sliding the books into her closet for safekeeping. Chewing on a chocolate as she glanced at the picture. Sleeping in _this _bed, her thick hair covering _this _pillow.

He can't do it, and he doesn't know whether he's happy about this. His heart stops pounding and he pulls the book back out. He flops onto the bed (he can't think of it as _his _bed anymore), and cracks open the spine, deliberately ignoring the neat handwriting. _Hermione J—_

It isn't that he's upset that she's dead. He's known that for weeks now. He thinks if he tries hard enough he can picture the exact jet of light that killed her. He thinks he can imagine Potter screaming, and he thinks he remembers where she fell.

The book is enjoyable. A play; a comedy. But the whole time he's reading about Puck and Lysander and the rest of them he's wondering what the _J _stands for.

He's hungry, and he takes the book downstairs with him when he goes looking for food. Potter's in the kitchen as well, slowly spooning a can of peaches into his mouth.

Draco plunges his hand into the cupboard, blindly feeling around for anything of interest. There's nothing.

He pulls out looking flustered, and turns to directly address Potter for the first time in days. "You don't have any food," he says. "Is this your grand scheme, Potter? Starving me to death? I knew you must have an ulterior motive."

Harry shakes his head and licks his spoon. "You can have some peaches if you want," he offers, extending the can.

Draco steps forward and accepts, glaring suspiciously into the can before pulling a spare fork out of a drawer and selecting a plump looking slice. While he's chewing, he notices Potter staring at his left hand. He swallows. "What?" he asks irritably.

"That book," Potter says in a low voice, "Where did you get it?"

Draco feels as if he's been caught in the middle of doing something forbidden. "I found it in a box," he said.

"Give it to me."

It doesn't ever occur to Draco to refuse, he merely thrusts it into Potter's free hand and looks away.

"I want you staying out of Hermione's things," he says intensely, staring at Draco with his death-colored eyes. "Just because you're staying here doesn't mean you can do anything you like. I can still kick you out."

A twinge of anger rises up in Draco. "You could have told me I was staying in her bedroom," he says resentfully. "Though I suppose it's understandable. After all, you've gotten so many of your friends killed by now it must be hard to keep track."

Draco stares at Potter, fully prepared for a violent outburst. Instead he watches as Potter's face drains of all expression. The can of peaches drops to the floor and juice runs across the rug. And then emotion starts to flicker back like a light turning on, starting in his eyes. It's not the fury Draco was expecting; but despair, so complete and absolute that the room echoes with it. Draco can feel it radiating off of him; a total lack of hope and happiness; remorse and guilt.

"I'm going off to bed," Potter says faintly. "Please don't follow me." A number of unpleasant retorts immediately spring to Draco's mind, but he can't bring himself to utter a single one. He stares after Potter's retreating back.

Potter's forgotten to take the book with him, but somehow Draco doesn't want to read it anymore. He leaves it on the counter beside Potter's still wet spoon. He finds a dry towel and mops up the juice. His hands are sticky, and he runs cool water over them.

He goes back up to her bedroom and tries to touch as little as possible. The box of books is still in the middle of the room, but not a single title holds the slightest appeal. He slides into bed. It's early afternoon, but he can't think of anything to do but sleep.

When he wakes up, the book is on his nightstand, with a bookmark marking the page he left off.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

On his next expedition out of his room, he encounters Potter just outside the door. His back is to the wall and his arms are wrapped around his knees, his head resting on his right elbow.

Draco stares. Potter's joints are all askew, making his unnatural skinniness even more pronounced. Draco is slender himself, but Potter is skin and bones. His glasses are crooked, and his hair is standing straight up in the back. His eyes are forlorn; but at least it's better than the absolute desolation of yesterday. He shudders just to think about it.

Draco shakes himself out of his reverie. "What are you doing?" he asks, much more subdued than he usually is when talking to Potter.

Potter shrugs and looks up at Draco. "It's none of your business," he says levelly.

Draco feels a pronounced anger mounting in his chest. It is the sort of anger he doesn't want to have at the moment—he is, after all, living in Potter's house, and if he is kicked out he has absolutely no where to go. But it is the sort of anger Potter always seems to incite in him, despite his best efforts. "Why not?" he demands. "I'm living in your damn house. You must have a reason; because I know you hate me. But you've been avoiding me like the plague. And I try to be friendly—we're on the same side, you know."

"I don't hate you, Malfoy," Harry says quietly, tilting his head back to rest on the wall. His eyes flutter shut. And then, quieter, "And there are no sides anymore. The war's over. It doesn't matter."

Draco finds himself at a complete loss for words. But—"You don't hate me?" he asks, flustered. This is the kind of thing that has the potential to throw his whole world out of whack, if he lets it.

Potter smiles a little. "No, Malfoy, I don't hate you. I think you're a complete bastard most of the time, but—when it counted, you did the right thing."

"Oh." Draco is quiet for a minute, drinking in this new revelation. "I _am_ a bastard," he says, almost as if he's trying to change Harry's mind.

"I know."

"I'm a terrible git. I'm a prat. I'm a Slytherin."

"We're not in school anymore."

"I've dabbled in the Dark Arts. More than dabbled."

"So have I."

"I've done things that would make your skin crawl."

"_I've _done things that make my _own_ skin crawl."

Draco struggles to think up something more to say. "Okay," is all he comes up with. "I'm going to go have some peaches now," he says.

Potter nods. "There's a can in the cupboard," he says.

When Draco's a third of the way down the stairs, Potter stops him. "Malfoy?" he calls. Draco slowly stops and rotates to face the other man. "You wondered what I was doing. And to answer your question, I was just trying to remember where I put my Firebolt."

It isn't an interesting answer, not even halfway exciting. But Draco can't bring himself to be disappointed. He almost smiles.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco spends less time in his room now. Every time he opens his eyes he pictures Hermione Granger twirling around the room, book in hand, trying to tame her mane of hair. And every time he closes them he relives his father's final moments--(turning from his duel to look at him, no more hatred, "Draco," he said. Green light blasting him backwards off his feet, head landing at a crooked angle. And who—_who _had been the other participant in the duel?)

Right now he's lounging on the couch and staring at the Black family tree. He's staring at his parents' names and wondering at the tiny burns.

His left sleeve slips down, and he's suddenly terribly aware of the black design etched in his flesh. It isn't as dark as it was, and the skin beneath it is scarred. He unconsciously reaches up and traces it, his fingers lightly dancing over the skull and making their way down to the tips of the snake tail. He pictures it glinting in the sky, a bright green emblem that people still fear.

A door creaks open (everything creaks in this house), and Harry Potter enters the room.

Draco briefly shoots a glance at him over his shoulder, and then returns to the much more interesting task of examining his forearm.

Suddenly, Potter's behind the couch, leaning over behind Draco and looking at the Mark. "I'd forgotten," he says shakily.

Draco glares and rolls up his sleeve as fast as he can. "It's nothing," he says. He can feel Potter's breath on his hair, warm and light. It smells like peaches.

"I always wondered," he said, "Why you did it. If you never even wanted to...if you couldn't..."

Draco squeezes his eyes shut in frustration and falls back into the soft cushions of the couch. "My father would have been very disappointed," he says evenly. "Sometimes you have to do things."

Potter nods, and Draco thinks that maybe they have some sort of understanding now. So he doesn't object when Potter leans over the back of the couch to grasp his forearm.

Potter's touch is light, questioning. And when Draco makes no move to stop him, he pulls it back a little. He rolls down the sleeve, and his fingers move softly over Draco's skin. His hand moves from Draco's wrist to his hand—so he can see the Mark, of course—and their fingers twine together. Draco can't do anything but watch, his body tense and his attention rapt. Potter's fingers are taking the same path that Draco's traveled just a minute ago, but they feel infinitely softer. Draco feels Potter's fingers slow at every ridge in his skin, smoothing over the scars with a sort of gentle tenderness that Draco would never have believed him capable of. He stops when he reaches the tip of the snake tail and lifts his fingers momentarily; his hand still lightly wrapped around Draco's. Draco closes his eyes. But then here are Potter's fingers again, doing the same thing but backwards; flitting lightly over the Mark from tail to skull. When he reaches smooth, unscarred skin, he stops, lifts his hand. The hairs on the back of Draco's arm stand up. Potter places his arm on the back of the couch.

"What's the scar from?" he asks.

"I tried to get rid of it," he says, remembering. "Unsuccessfully, though I suppose that's obvious. The Dark Lord was always rather good at marking his property."

Potter's eyes widen. "That's horrible," he said.

Draco rolls his eyes. "Oh, don't get so worked up about it," he says crossly. "It was my choice to join. Just like it was my choice to leave."

Harry nods slowly. Draco wants to to give him a shake.

"Look," he snaps, "You knew I was a Death Eater for a while, sort of. You knew all Death Eaters got the Mark. You knew _I _had the Mark. Now you've seen it." He isn't quite sure why he's being so irrational, but he can't help remembering Potter's fingers on his wrist and his hand in Potter's hand. He hugs his knees.

"I guess you're right," Potter says, but he sounds like he's admitting some sort of defeat. To what, Draco can only imagine.

Potter heads into the kitchen for a can of peaches. Draco stares at his arm.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

That night he wakes up in a panic. He doesn't remember dreaming and he isn't particularly uncomfortable and he has no idea what's causing him to leap out of bed like he's sleeping on coals. But he's shivering, and he hears the low rumble of thunder in the distance, and he wonders if Granger ever got scared in this room. It isn't raining, but the air is heavy and threatening. Draco slips on his slippers and bolts downstairs, almost running.

He's panicking, and he knows he shouldn't—because what's there to panic about anymore? Because Harry's killed Voldemort and the only Death Eaters still alive are in Azkaban and--

He sees green light and his father lying in the dirt; he sees Potter's green eyes and feels Potter's skin on his hand. He smells peaches.

And he doesn't know what's scared of but it's suddenly the most important thing in the world to be anywhere but here, anywhere but here in Potter's house in the room of Potter's dead friend eating Potter's peaches. He doesn't know what's wrong with him, but he can't breathe and he can't stay here anymore. Everything will be better if he's away from Potter.

He steps outside. The door hangs open, and Draco looks in. "I'm leaving," he calls inside the silent house. "I'm going now."

And he does.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco's twelve galleons last him two nights at the Hogshead. It's the most disgusting place he's ever slept but it's away from those books and Granger and peaches and Potter. There's a green stain on the wall. He moves a chair in front of it.

When the galleons are gone he doesn't quite know what to do. He stands outside the Hogshead for over an hour, watching the sky grow dark, until an old man comes out looking quite threatening, wielding a mop and muttering under his breath. Draco takes that as his cue to leave.

And he knows that if he wants to, he can go back. He knows that Potter will let him; simply because he is Potter and _"I don't think you're all bad--"_

"I am," he answers, scowling as he braces himself against the wind.

He wanders around Hogsmeade for a while. He isn't used to not having any money. He moves past the Weasley store as fast as he can, ducking his head.

By the time he stops to rest it's night. He can see the stars. He checks to see no one's looking and then slides down against a brick wall, his head reclining on a low ledge. He closes his eyes and sees green.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He returns to Grimmauld the next morning, feeling a bit as if he is a child who's misbehaved; waiting to hear his punishment.

But when Potter opens the door, he doesn't yell. He merely scans Draco from head to toe, making him feel more self-conscious than he ever remembers being. He blushes and stares at his feet.

Potter jerks his head as if to say, _Alright, come on in, _but he still hasn't actually _said _anything. Draco follows him.

He hears Potter messing around in the kitchen, but he's tired from sleeping propped up against a wall and his back and legs ache and he can't quite see straight. So instead he lets himself collapse on the couch, relishing the way the pillow actually moves around his head and his limbs sink into the cushions. He moans in appreciation and closes his eyes.

A delicious smell is drifting out of the kitchen. Maybe Potter's finally bought some food other than peaches.

Draco's half-asleep when Potter prods his shoulder.

"Er, I thought you might be hungry," he says hesitantly, his hair falling in front of his eyes. He's holding a plate of what Draco recognizes as peaches, but steam's drifting off them and he can see cinnamon sprinkled on top.

And it's almost too much; because Potter sounds almost friendly and he's_ Potter_, for Merlin's sake, and he's not supposed to be _nice_. But he's offering food and Draco's hungry and he thinks that of all the people he really knew at Hogwarts, Potter's the only one still alive.

He can't believe he's never noticed this before, but now that he has he has to laugh a little. At first it's just a slight rumble in his chest but then his face is scrunched up and his whole body is shaking and tears are leaking out from beneath his tightly squeezed eyelids and he's thinking, _I am not crying in front of Harry Potter. Anybody but Harry Potter._

And Harry doesn't say anything, but Draco can tell he's still there, watching. He's doubled over and he thinks he feels a hand on his shoulder and he's shuddering and he thinks of Pansy and Vincent and Gregory and Blaise and his father and even Granger.

And when he opens his eyes Harry's watching him intently, and he thinks _Potter understands, the git. It had to be him. _And he's wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He doesn't want to explain himself, and he isn't sure he can. So instead he sits up and meets Potter's eyes and takes the plate from Potter's hand.

"Peaches, Potter?" He smiles. "They actually look quite good."

And they are.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco finds a wizard's chess set in the basement. He's almost afraid to bring it down for fear that it belongs to one of Potter's friends, but the seal on the bottom is the House of Black, Narcissa's maiden name. The chessboard almost belongs to him. It could have belonged to him.

It's marble and heavy. He brings it downstairs and drops it on the coffee table.

Potter's in his room, which Draco realizes he's never actually seen. He knows where it is, though, on the top floor, so he goes to the door and knocks.

Potter answers promptly, looking frazzled. His feet are bare and his hair is messy and he isn't wearing his glasses. It's almost...endearing.

"Why are you waking me up so early?" Potter moans, stifling a yawn. Draco checked his watch. Oh. He hadn't realized it was only seven. His sleeping habits have been disrupted since coming to live at Grimmauld.

But when facing mistakes the best thing to do was to ignore them. "Do you play chess?" He asks perkily.

Potter still looks suspicious. He squints a bit, maybe trying to focus. "A bit," he says, "Why?"

"I found a chessboard," Draco says proudly, "I want to play."

Potter yawns again. "Okay," he says. "Let me grab my glasses."

Draco blinks. He wasn't expecting that. "Really?"

Potter gives him a wry smile. "Really. Go start setting up."

Draco stands outside Potter's closed door for a minute before turning and sprinting back down the hall. He feels like clapping.

The chess pieces are in fairly good condition, so they spring in place when he tells them to. He has his doubts they'll be willing to follow orders, but if that happens he can always curse them.

Potter stumbles downstairs a few minutes later, still looking half-asleep.

Draco's already taken the couch, so he pulls up an armchair and burrows into it. He has his glasses on, but his hair is still uncombed and his feet are still bare. "You should try combing your hair once in a while," Draco says informatively, "You'd look...much less sloppy."

Potter runs his fingers along his scalp. "It never stays flat," he says humorously. "You could run a steamroller over it and it would pop right up."

"What's a steamroller?"

"Never mind." Potter stares at the pieces for a moment. "This belonged to my godfather," he says.

"Ah," Draco says. That would be Sirius Black, of course. He hopes Potter doesn't have another melt-down; it seems like everything in the house has belonged to one of his friends at one point or another.

But Potter's looking over his shoulder and smiling. "He hated it," he says, "He tried to burn it. See?" He points to a corner of the board that does, in fact, look slightly charred.

"You know," Draco says nervously, "Some hair-gel would probably fix even _your_ hair, just like that."

Potter stares at him. Draco stares at his hands and blushes. Suddenly Potter's laughing. Draco thinks that perhaps this is the hysterical outburst he's been waiting for. Perhaps Potter's finally gone insane.

He chuckles a few time and shakes his head. "Your move, Malfoy," he says encouragingly.

Draco grins and sends out a pawn. He's never actually been a witness, but he's certainly _heard _about Potter's total lack of chess skills. This should be fun.

And at first it is. Potter moves a knight seemly at random. Draco sees instantly how he can capture it without getting his own piece taken, and then if he sacrifices his bishop and moves his castle _that _way...

But Potter isn't moving his pieces the way Draco needs him to. Potter's move aren't making the slightest amount of sense. Potter makes each move as though it's something that just happened to strike his fancy.

But then Draco sees it. He can move his queen diagonally that way, capture that pawn, and then, with nothing left to stop him, take the king.

He grins triumphantly and grips the queen in his hand.

"Draco?"

He looks up.

"Do you really think hair gel would make my hair look better?"

His hand slides across the board and slips off the piece without him really noticing where he was moving it.

Potter's grinning at him. His lips crinkle up at the corners and his eyes are alight with mirth. It's infectious.

Suddenly remembering, Draco's eyes turn to the chessboard. His queen is one square short of where he meant to put it. Right in the path of Harry's pawn.

Draco groans and slides down until he is sprawled almost horizontal on the couch.

"You can borrow my hair gel if you want to, Harry," he mumbles.

Harry, then. The name slips out before Draco can stop it. And he thinks maybe he's okay with that. After all, if Potter thinks it's suddenly okay to call him Draco...

Harry wins the game.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He's never quite sure how, a few days later, he finds himself sitting on the counter in the bathroom watching Harry Potter attempt to tame his hair with gel.

He isn't doing a very good job, either.

He has a blob of gel in the palm of his left hand, which he is prodding dubiously with his right index finger.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Draco?" he asks nervously. "I mean, this isn't going to turn my hair blond or anything, is it?"

Draco almost chokes. "You? A blond? Don't be ridiculous. You could never pull it off. Just put it in and your hair should lie flat."

Harry shrugs and turns his palm upside down over his head and begins to rub it into his scalp.

Draco nearly faints with horror. "Harry," he manages to say, "Stop! Right this second! Remove your hand from your head!"

Harry pauses and looks over his shoulder at Draco. "Am I doing something wrong?" he asks, bemused.

Draco closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly. "Are you doing something...Yes, of course you're doing something wrong! You can't just slather it around like that! See, you're just making it stick up more. Only now there's gel in it, so it's get stuck that way."

Harry peers at his reflection. "Hmm," he says reflectively, "I guess you're right."

"Of course I'm right," Draco snaps, "Get a comb."

Harry rolls his eyes, but complies anyway, pulling a comb out of a drawer.

"You actually own one," Draco says dryly. "Allow me to express my astonishment."

Harry wisely refrains from commenting. "Okay," he says skeptically, "Now what?"

"Just start with the comb right at the front of your hairline and pull straight back," Draco instructs.

Harry tries, but doesn't even reach his ears before stopping and wincing. "It's stuck," he says painfully.

Draco shakes his head. "Don't you ever comb your hair?" he asks, with a note of something close to affection in his voice.

Harry squints. "Not really," he admits, "I don't see the point."

Draco presses his lips together. "Give me the comb," he orders, sticking out his hand and sliding over the counter so he's directly in front of Harry.

Harry tilts his head to the side and looks from the comb to Draco and back again. "I dunno."

Draco snatches it out of his hands. With one hand, he holds Harry's head straight, and with the other, he begins the arduous task of getting his hair straight. Unlike Harry, he knows better than to try and fix the whole mess at once. He combs lightly over the top layer, which at least hides some of the tangled mess. He goes over it again and again, pressing harder each time.

Once, he sits back to admire his work and Harry's staring at him. He's suddenly very aware of his hand on Harry's jaw. He drops it quickly.

"Done?" Harry asks softly, a faint pink tint creeping into his cheeks.

Draco purses his lips. "Not quite," he answers decisively, tilting Harry's head to the side. He combs the hair on the sides of Harry's head towards the back like the hair on top of his scalp, but also angled down towards his neck slightly. Draco thinks it looks nice. His hand is on Harry's chin, and Harry's breath is more than a little distracting. Draco takes his time.

When he's finally done, he slides off the counter so Harry can see his reflection in the mirror. "Well?" he asks expectantly.

Harry's staring at himself.

"Getting vain, Potter?" Draco asks.

Harry shakes his head. "My hair looks like _yours_," he says accusingly, "Except not blond."

Draco nods. "Pretty much. I thought that was the point."

Harry shakes his head vigorously. "No." And without so much as a warning, he sticks his head under the sink and blasts the faucet.

Draco yelps as a shower of water shoots up and splatters him. Muttering to himself about ungrateful wizards, he leaves Harry to re-ruin his hair. But he's smiling as he goes, and he dimly wonders why he isn't more upset that all his work was ruined.

Ah, well. He heads into the kitchen for a can of peaches.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Harry's quiet today, and Draco is on the verge of asking him what's wrong, when he says, in the middle of a chess game (Draco's winning), "Ron's coming over to spend the day tomorrow."

Draco takes his hand off the piece he was going to move. "Weasley? I thought he was dead."

Harry shakes his head vigorously. "No. Not Ron. Ron's absolutely fine."

"Oh." Draco doesn't think that expressing disappointment of any sort is appropriate right now.

Harry narrows his eyes. "Draco," he says warningly.

"I know," Draco huffs.

"I know I can't expect you to be anything like civil to him," Harry says, continuing as if he hasn't heard a thing, "So you really have two options. You can stay in the house and just leave us alone all day tomorrow, or you can _leave _the house and leave us alone all day tomorrow. Whatever strikes your fancy."

Draco scowls and crosses his arms. "I _could _be nice if I wanted to," he grumbles, "I _could_."

"That's nice, Draco. Your move."

Draco takes Harry's castle. "I suppose I'll go somewhere," he says doubtfully, "if I stay here I'll probably be murdered by your Weasel friend."

Harry looks shocked. "Ron wouldn't do that!" he says, instantly springing to his friend's defense. "And if he _did,_ you'd probably deserve it; you've been horrible to him."

"He's awful to me as well. And he has the mental capacity of Hagrid's little brother."

"Don't insult my friends, Malfoy," Harry says seriously. "I mean that. And Ron's a lot smarter than you give him credit for; he's working on advertising for his older brothers, did you know that? And you were mean to us, first, you know. But we're not in school anymore, and I don't think it really matters all that much how you two hated each other when you were eleven. But you _still _hate each other, and I don't want my house getting burned down."

"I live here!" Draco defends himself, outraged.

"Ron's my best friend," Harry says.

They never finish the game.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco doesn't sleep that night. He tosses from side to side on the bed for a while before moving to the living room and lying flat on his back on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

He doesn't think he's seen Weasley in over a year; he honestly thought he was dead. Though if he stops to consider it, that's probably who Harry's been visiting all those times when he said he was going out for a while.

He scowls and lets out an annoyed puff of breath. He doesn't see why he should have to get along with Weasley just because Harry does.

And he didn't like that Harry automatically assumed that he would cause a fight. He would only do something if Weasley started it. He liked his current living arrangements. And, unlike Weasley, _he's _grown up a little since leaving Hogwarts. No matter if it _is _true that his parents are muggle-loving trash. Draco's likes to think he's too mature to comment.

Unlike Weasley.

Eventually he gives up trying to get to sleep naturally and performs a sleeping charm on himself.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Draco's rudely awakened a few hours earlier than he would have liked. He hears a doorbell and thinks he's dreaming at first. He hears footsteps and a door thrown open and wonders where he is.

"Bloody hell, Harry, that's not Malfoy on your couch, is it?"

Draco yawns and rolls over. He thinks dimly that he should probably say something, but he doesn't think it's worth it. Maybe they'll leave him alone and he can get back to sleep.

"Don't worry; he said he'd go somewhere today." Draco thinks he remembers saying something like that; but he hasn't given it a thought since.

"What's he doing here?" Weasley's voice is mutinous.

Wait. Weasley?

Draco sits up, stretching his arms and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. He knocks over a few chess pieces; but that's okay, he was loosing anyway.

"Morning, Weasel."

Harry looks distinctly unhappy to be in this situation. He grabs Ron by the wrist and tries to pull him away. "Come on, Ron."

Weasley's ears are turning red, Draco notices. They clash rather horribly with his hair and sweater. He tugs his arm out of Harry's grasp. "No! Tell me why you have that...that—he's a Death Eater, Harry!"

"Well, you know he's not anymore, Ron," Harry explains, flustered. "He doesn't have anywhere else to stay."

"He's _staying _here? At Grimmauld Place? Harry!"

"How perfectly eloquent, Weasley," Draco says dryly, "And you seemed to have grasped the basic concept as well. Congratulations."

"Draco—Ron--"

"Draco? Since when is he _Draco?_"

"Since I was born."

"Please, Ron, why don't we just step into the kitchen--"

"You slimy little git!"

"Is that the best you can do, Weasel? Guess you should have finished your seventh year after all."

Weasley's entire face is red by this point. Harry looks distraught, and he's still trying to tug Ron into the kitchen.

Draco simply stares.

Weasley eventually complies and follows Harry, glaring murderously over his shoulder as he goes.

Draco decides he doesn't feel like going anywhere. He retreats to the attic. It's messy; there are empty bottles and feathers over in one corner and the rest is packed with boxes.

He goes over to the part of the attic that's above the kitchen and he can hear flits of conversation. He hears Quidditch and Hogwarts and the Ministry and he's on the verge of giving up when he hears his own name.

It's Weasley who brings him up. Draco can't hear everything, but he does hear, "...Malfoy here is a bad idea...trouble, Harry, what were you..."

And he hears Harry's reply, "...few weeks, Ron, it's not...and anyway...not all bad..."

He hears chairs shuffling. They're heading into the living room; he can tell by the footsteps, but he can't hear them from up here.

He goes downstairs and heads into the kitchen. They're sitting on the couch playing chess. He gives them his most winning smile and opens a can of peaches, leaning against the wall between the kitchen and the living room so he can hear.

"I mean, Harry, I just can't see why you'd _want _him here. He's a git, he's a snob--"

"He's right _there, _Ron!"

"And we have to be considerate of his _feelings _now, is that it? When's he ever been considerate of any of _us_?"

Draco thinks that now is a good time to intervene. "Hello, Harry. Weasel. Would anyone like some peaches? I know you must be hungry."

Harry shakes his head, and Draco saunters away before Weasley's head explodes.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

The morning after Weasley's visit, Harry says, "You should get a job, Draco."

Draco looks up from his newspaper and frowns. "Why?"

Harry shrugs. "Well, you need money, don't you, if you ever want to get out of here."

Draco tilts his head and wonders if he actually _does _want out. He likes living in Grimmauld Place. He likes living with Harry. "I suppose so," he says evenly.

"I mean, you don't want to stay here forever—do you?" He says it like it's an actual question. As though Draco can answer.

"I'll start looking," he says tightly.

"Look, no pressure or anything--"

"I know."

Draco's already opened the classified ads.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

Actually finding a job is harder than he expects. He never completed his NEWTs, for one thing, which rules out a third of jobs to begin with. If you added in the fact that he's never really had a job at all, his chance of getting hired for something halfway decent were starting to look like zero.

He submits his resume to half a dozen places. His grades are good, anyway; he has eight OWLs, six of which are Os. And when he actually gets called in for a job interview, he's good at charming over the interviewer. Two places send him an owl offering him a job.

He shows them to Harry.

"Very nice," Harry says, "Congratulations. Are you going to take it?"

"I don't know," Draco says, "Should I?"

Harry doesn't look at him. "If you want to. And...you know, if you do that doesn't mean you have to leave."

Draco starts work at Madame Malkin's two weeks later.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

It's weird, having a set schedule again. Draco has to be up by seven and leave the house no later than eightand he gets home at around seven. It's a long day and the work isn't anything he'd ever expected to be doing but he almost likes it.

He's tired when he gets home, but he usually stays up late anyway. He and Harry engage in hours long chess tournaments. Draco usually wins, and he rarely cheats.

Tonight he's winning. It's Harry's move, and he has to find something to do with the four pieces he has left. He's leaning over the board, and his hair is falling in front of his eyes so that Draco can't see his face.

Draco can't see the board well with Harry bending over it like that, so he leans forward, too. There are only two moves Harry can make that won't result in Draco instantly winning. Harry frowns in concentration and puts his head in his hands.

"Hurry up," Draco orders.

Harry looks up. He's so close their foreheads brush, so close that Draco can't really see anything but his eyes. He can feel Harry's breath on his lips, and it smells like peaches.

He thinks he should probably pull away, but he doesn't. His mouth falls open slightly. The bridge of Harry's glasses is pressing into his nose. And he thinks, _If I just leaned forward..._

Neither of them moves. Draco's breathing is shallow, and Harry's eyes flutter shut. His hand is on the table and it's sliding a little towards Draco's. Their knuckles graze, barely touching.

Draco can't breathe and he can see the veins through the thin skin of Harry's eyelid and if he wanted to he could take Harry's hand and press his mouth to Harry's and he knows Harry wouldn't stop him and he knows he wouldn't want to be stopped.

He pulls away quickly, falling against the back of the couch. He's trembling a little and Harry hasn't moved but his eyes are open and he looks slightly confused and a little worried and Draco's wondering why he _didn't _kiss him and the only answer he can come up with is that it's Potter.

"Draco," Harry says. "Draco, what--"

"No," Draco says, cutting him off. He's gripping the arm of the couch and his knuckles are white and he remembers they were touching Harry's only seconds ago.

Neither of them are saying anything. It's just the two of them and Draco can hear both of them breathing, _inhale exhale inhale_, and a faucet leaking in the kitchen, _drip drip drip plop._

"I'm tired," he says, wobbling to his feet, "I'm going to bed."

Harry doesn't try to stop him.

He stumbles a little while he's climbing the staircase. His knees are knocking together. He leans against his bedroom door after he shuts it, breathing deeply.

He isn't really tired but he crawls into bed anyway, pulling pillows around his head and burying himself under mounds of blankets. The curtains are pulled back from the window and he sees snow outside.

His face is pressed into his pillow as he breathes and it occurs to him that he isn't the first owner of these pillows and maybe Granger wasn't the first either because they smell like Harry.

He casts a sleeping charm on himself.

XXXxxxXXXxxxXXX

He wakes up before dawn. It's still dark out and the only light in the room is the glow of his alarm clock. He considers going downstairs for a while or going outside but he doesn't want to move.

And he doesn't. Each muscle in his body is perfectly still. His fingers are slightly bent and brushing the sheets of the bed. His eyes are opened but it's so dark they might as well be closed.

Slowly night turns to day. The digits on his clock slip to seven--eight--nine. At ten there's a light rapping at his door. Harry comes in before Draco can pretend to be asleep.

His face is scrunched up in concern. "Are you alright, Draco?" he asks. "I sent an owl to Madame Malkin's telling them you were sick when you didn't come down to go to work. I hope that's okay."

"It's fine," Draco says dully, turning on his side to stare at the wall. He remembers that Harry hasn't been up here since that first night, and he wonders what brings him here now.

Harry approaches cautiously and sits on the end of his bed. "What's wrong?" he asks.

"Nothing."

"I brought you a can of peaches," Harry says, "I thought you might be hungry." He sets it down on Draco's nightstand.

Harry's close and Draco's miserable and Harry can probably see every tear glinting on his eyelashes but Draco sees green eyes and soft lips.

Harry shakes his head a little and lightly touches the side of Draco's face. His hand brushes across his forehead and comes to rest on Draco's cheek. Draco shivers.

And Harry's coming closer, and Draco is reminded forcibly of last night and he wants this so badly but he isn't quite sure.

Harry tilts his head curiously for a moment, then briefly presses his lips to Draco's in a chaste kiss.

"Is that okay?" he asks.

And Draco's mouth flies open and he doesn't quite know what to say so he grabs the back of Harry's neck and pulls him down again. Their mouths crash together and Draco's hands are in Harry's hair and Harry's hands are on the small of his back and on his waist and he thinks he feels Harry's tongue on his lips.

He thinks he moans a little and Harry pulls back and he's panting and Draco picks up the can of peaches with trembling hands and slides one into Harry's mouth.

He isn't quite sure where the idea came from but he's glad he had it because now Harry's tongue is on his finger tips and sucking lightly and Harry's lips are around his knuckles and he kisses Harry's neck. He's pulling his hand away and when his mouth meets Harry's again he tastes peaches.

He wonders briefly why this happened but it's hard to think when Harry's touching him.

He opens his eyes and he find Harry's are open, too, and he's staring into green and he's tasting peaches.

Right now he thinks those are the two greatest things in the world.

**Well, all of you who made it this far, hope you enjoyed it. I love reviews, especially constructive criticism.**


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